


'Try' being the operative word

by bluebells



Series: The Shotgun Talk [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Post-Cage Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-14
Updated: 2011-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:19:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebells/pseuds/bluebells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael tries to get Dean and Sam's permission to court the youngest Winchester, and is treated to the Winchester version of the shotgun talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Try' being the operative word

"Uh.... "

Sam and Dean exchanged a dubious look.

"How about: no," Dean offered.

The tall, dark-haired stranger on the other side of the parking meter waited with his hands in his pockets. He looked between them with patient interest, not a smile or a frown. He clearly expected them to review their answers.

They hadn't paid him much notice until he'd called them by name and introduced himself as 'Michael'.

As in the archangel Michael they'd thrown into the pit not a year earlier wearing their little brother's face.

Adam had resurfaced two weeks ago. Today was the first they'd gotten him out of the motel room.

And here was Michael, not looking to fight and carefully avoiding any mention of the apocalypse.

Michael was instead asking their permission to 'court' Adam.

Court him.

Uh... what?

After a minute of stunned silence, several threads of carefully layered accusations to deduce Michael's true aim and intent, they realised that he was completely serious.

No, really... what?

Dean was pretty sure their five minute parking had expired in the time they'd been standing there.

Sam had no pretenses for the archangel.

" _Hell_ no."

"Emphasis on the 'hell'," Dean said, voice rising, "If you think a year in the slammer's some prelude to a romance, let me clear the air: do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars and our brother on your way out. _No._ And with us humans that word actually holds for something. You want a weekend joust, find some corner crackhead and give me a call when you learn the meaning of 'consent'."

Michael's vessel had light brown eyes. It was striking and, they bet, entirely on purpose. When Michael's expression became curious, almost stern, those bright brown eyes were completely disarming.

"If you're referring to the time Adam served as my vessel --"

"You're not doing that again," Sam interrupted, light and assured.

"No," Michael said, slow and noticeably tolerant of the interruption, though the look he threw Sam let him know Michael was counting his exceptions. "I won't."

Dean snorted, lip curling.

"Hey, you'll forgive us if we don't take your word at face value. But your word, and the word of any other angel with one exception, counts for less than the mud on my boot right now."

Somewhere behind them, Adam was winding up in the grocery store. He'd wanted to do this small chore by himself after a fortnight recovering in their motel room. Adam had effectively stared his brothers down until Dean threw up his hands, Sam shrugged, and they decided they could wait it out by the car.

Michael's face turned cold and dangerous.

"You think I forced him," His voice was flat and quiet.

Sam shrugged like Michael had finally caught up to the rest of the class.

"Duress isn't consent, Michael."

Michael glanced between the brothers and the slow surprise that stole his expression was surreal. Dean had to give the angel credit for his ability to act; it was a conceit apparently few had learned.

"He didn't tell you."

Sam and Dean didn't even look at each other, but, oh, how they wanted to. They'd come through enough years of wrecking and rebuilding trust to know they didn't have to. Questions for Adam could wait.

Dean leaned his hands on his hips and didn't bother restraining the scowl that wanted to let his fist fly.

"You're not wearing him. You're not having him. Walk away, Michael."

Michael was never going to be cowed by Dean's filthy glare, but something over Dean's shoulder caught his eye and his expression shifted to a blank, controlled slate.

Adam stood at the grocery's threshold, half caught in shade, short hair glowing bright in the early morning sun. The brown paper bag was slightly crushed against his side, eyes on the archangel talking to his brothers.

And he looked pretty pissed off. Somehow, he knew who his brothers were talking to.

"I had to ask," Michael eventually said, hushed. If he'd been human, Dean might have called it resigned. He wasn't sure if Michael had meant asking for Adam's permission before possession, their blessing for Michael to pursue some quasi-normal relationship with him, or both.

The angel stepped down from the sidewalk and before he disappeared, the heavy look in his eyes made Dean think of Castiel, of Anna.

"I never forced him."

Then Michael was gone, Dean blinked in bewilderment, and Sam sighed with a heavy, familiar shrug.

"He actually looked sort of earnest, at the end," Sam said.

Dean pulled a face. "So fucking earnest."

They both turned to Adam who was still scowling at the Impala's nose where Michael had stood a moment ago. Dean didn't miss the new sting of disappointment in Adam's expression, as if he had been expecting something else from that visit. Maybe something more.

It was that look that gave Michael's story its only credence.

Dean cleared his throat and Adam's attention cut to him.

"We've gotta talk."

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first Michael/Adam fic I ever wrote, out of passing curiosity, in response to a prompt for owleyes_arisen. I thought there was no way it could be anything but crack. A year later and I still can't believe what an obsession it became. I know just who to blame for that, too.


End file.
